


As If All The World Were Watching

by mandatorily



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Emotional Manipulation, First Time, M/M, Masturbation, POV First Person, Virginity, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-29
Updated: 2012-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-02 17:22:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandatorily/pseuds/mandatorily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson's just discovered slash. Turns out he's quite the fan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As If All The World Were Watching

**Author's Note:**

> Written for http://au-bingo.livejournal.com/ & the square Fandom. Beta'd by the incomparable Cady, who is my hero. Obviously any leftover mistakes are all my own and stem from the fact that I wrote this IN ONE DAY. This is the first time I've dipped my toe in the Sherlock fandom. I had quite a lot of fun, but don't know if I'll ever try it again. Title is from a quote by Thomas Jefferson: Whenever you do a thing, act as if all the world were watching.

It’s to everyone’s misfortune that the cameras arrive on a day when Sherlock is bored. Perhaps the only stroke of luck on this most dreaded of days is the fact that my manners prevent me from strangling Sherlock while witnesses are present. Putting up with a petulant Sherlock is a trial on most days, but when he’s being forced, excuse me, “coerced” into doing something he has no desire to do? It’s a truly horrifying experience. 

If it weren’t for the money and getting to watch a telly crew apply make-up to Sherlock while he tries to fidget out of his chair, I’d have been the one to tell Lestrade to piss off when he’d made the suggestion about the reality programme. Of course, I wouldn’t have done it with quite the flair of Sherlock. There really was no substitute for hearing someone told off in fully three different foreign languages. 

But, Lestrade had made it perfectly clear that the department was in need of funds (so were we, if truth be known, and we were allowed to keep half of the fee) and publicity and if Sherlock would like to continue consulting on cases, he’d have to offer something in return. Thus, the Science Of Deduction, starring a reluctant Sherlock Holmes and his, equally reluctant blogger, was born. 

“I’m not entering a beauty contest! I’m here to talk about _science_. What does it matter what I look like?” 

Sherlock’s voice is shrill, bordering on panicked, but the redoubtable old make-up girl’s having none of it. Apparently she’s used to this sort of behavior. It says something for the state of my life that I’ve become used to it as well.

“Now, Mr. Holmes. Just a bit more to give you a little color--”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, huffing out a breath and looking at me with one of _those looks_. There were a full catalogue of them and I’d become quite good at deciphering each one. This one said, “John, please explain.”

I huff out a breath of my own, because we’ve been over this so many times someone far less intelligent than Sherlock would have long since caught on. “You know what’s going on, Sherlock. You know why they’re here. Do try to remember what we’ve talked about. What you’ve _agreed_ to.”

He throws up his hands and _pouts_. It’s one of the most ridiculous things I’ve ever seen a grown man do and yet, oddly endearing.

The hairdressers have a hold of him now, clucking away over the unruly mess he’s left his hair in. “Oh, Mr. Holmes, such soft, beautiful hair. It’s a shame you don’t take better care of it.”

“Much more of this and I’ll shave it all off!”

And the day, and Sherlock’s mood, generally goes down hill from there. The lights are too bright. The tea is too cold. His chair is uncomfortable. He’s bored. He can’t concentrate with all these people mucking round the flat. His list of grievances goes on and on, take after take, until I’m starting to reevaluate my decision not to put a bullet in my brain. Or his. Possibly both.

Our scenes together are a new test in frustration. He goes out of his way to make me look like a fool, a simpleton. I’m not even sure he’s _aware_ what he’s doing, or if he’s only trying to make himself feel superior. Whatever the reason, I’m at the end of my rope by the time the director yells cut on the final take. I toss off my microphone, usher everyone out of the flat and head for my room. And a drink. A good, stiff, Sherlock-free drink. Except Sherlock has other plans.

“Where are you going, John? I need help with an experiment.”

“I’m going to my room. I’d like not to be disturbed.”

“Whyever not?”

“Because, honestly, Sherlock, if I stay in the room with you one more minute I’m going to do something I will regret terribly tomorrow, as I can't pay the rent on my own.”

His brow furrows. His whole face falls, really, and I’m instantly sorry for snapping at him. He’s been through a lot today, stepped very far out of his comfort zone and mostly done it for other people.

I stay in my room for most of the night, listening to Sherlock beat and bang about in the kitchen. This is his not-so-subtle way of punishing me for being cross with him. I find myself going back over the events of the day, laughing at some of his wittier remarks about my intelligence and before long I’ve managed to think myself out of my anger. It’s an occurence that happens more often than I’d like to admit. 

“Dinner, then?” I ask, coming out of my room, already slipping on my coat.

“Chinese would be nice,” Sherlock replies.

I forgive Sherlock without him ever having asked me to and we fall back into our easy roles.

\----------

The next morning Lestrade calls with a case. A young boy’s gone missing, his babysitter’s throat’s been cut, among other, more gruesome things and we spend the day looking over evidence.

Camera crews follow us around for a few hours, Sherlock retreating more and more into himself, struggling to connect the dots he needs to in order to save this boy’s life. Their presence is annoying and frustrating for me, but doubly so for Sherlock and he reduces one of the camera girls to tears around noon.

I finally pull Greg to the side, explain that I think the show is interfering with Sherlock’s concentration, and between us we’re able to convince them to come back another day. When they’ve gone, Sherlock’s entire demeanor changes, a brightness comes back to his eyes and he lays a hand on my arm, letting it linger there long enough for the warmth of his fingers to reach me through the fabric of my jacket. It’s a subtle thanks, but it’s appreciated for all that he usually forgets these sorts of niceties.

We find the boy, but not the perpetrator later that afternoon. The boy’s clearly been harmed and it’s Sherlock who carries him out of the abandoned home where he’s been left. He’s silent and sullen on our way back to Baker Street, and I can feel the disappointment radiating off him, filling up the taxi. I rest my hand on his arm for only a moment, but I see the muscles in his neck relax slightly and know that we’ll find the bastard soon.

\----------

Later in the week, Mrs. Hudson throws a small party for the viewing of our first thirty minute show. It’s meant to be an introduction-type program where the audience gets to know Sherlock (and myself, God help me) better. Everyone’s gathered round our telly -- Lestrade, Molly, myself, Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson and even Mycroft, glued to the screen.

Ten minutes in and I have to leave the room. I look like a complete tosser and Sherlock looks like the biggest dick who ever walked the planet. From my vantage point in the hall, I’m able to watch Sherlock as he watches himself, and I wonder if I’m the only one who can see the way his mouth tightens around the edges when the narrator says something particularly stupid. Or mentions the fact that our latest case is hopelessly stalled.

The show finally over, I wander back into the sitting room, where Greg claps me on the back, reassuringly, I’m sure he thinks. And Molly says sweet things like, “Oh, John, you looked lovely in that brown jumper.” Mycroft, of course, doesn’t miss the chance to make a few digs at Sherlock’s expense, but when he sees the sort of mood Sherlock is in, he lets off and takes his leave, pleading a prior engagement.

The rest of the party breaks up soon after and we’re left to our own devices. I try to read, but Sherlock’s storming around the flat and my eyes are drawn to him more often than to my book. I finally give it up as a bad job and head for bed. Sherlock waves off my goodnight, dismissing me from his mind even before I’ve left the room. I’m possibly the only person in the world who understands that this is what it looks like when Sherlock thinks he’s failing.

\----------

The next morning I’m hauled out of bed before my eyes are even open. “Hurry, John,” Sherlock says and I know he’s finally made a breakthrough in the case.

I throw on the first thing I can find, rub my eyes and long for tea, but I follow Sherlock out of the flat and hail a taxi while he positively vibrates beside me with repressed, joy I’d say if it were anyone but Sherlock. Perhaps superiority is more appropriate in this case.

Several hours and several long, complicated speeches later, the kidnapper is in custody and Sherlock and I share a plate at Angelo’s. Even though the case is over, he still seems reluctant to eat, merely picking at my food in a random sort of way. I used to hate the idea of someone else eating off my plate, but for some reason with Sherlock it’s always just felt normal. I’m pretty sure that’s another rung on the ladder down to barminess, but I’ve ceased caring by this point.

There are paparazzi waiting for us when we’re done, bright flashes blinding in the dark. Sherlock takes my arm and leads me through the throng, slipping like a snake through water, somehow able to tell exactly where a space will open up that we can fit through. We dash through a few back alleys, breathless as kids, and laugh when the last of the photographers trips over a bin and loses his footing.

From then, the walk back to Baker Street is slow, both of us silent once our breathing has calmed down. It’s peaceful and I’m content, but I can tell that Sherlock’s still strung tight as a bow.

We’re barely home an hour, I’m just settled in front of the computer when Sherlock says, “I’m going out,” shrugging back into his coat and retying his scarf. I don’t look up from my laptop, because I’m used to this. Times like this used to worry me, these times when he wordlessly asks me not to follow him, but now I expect them after a particularly difficult case, usually one involving some sort of abused children.

I still wonder where he goes. Does he mindlessly wander the streets or go somewhere and punch things? I’d learned fairly quickly, though, that addiction wasn’t the same for Sherlock as it was for everyone else. It wasn’t exactly set off by normal triggers, so I’d given up wondering if he’d come home high, and settled for worrying why he felt the need to shut me out.

The door closes behind him and I sigh, paging through the numerous emails in front of me. My spam filter’s definitely not keeping up its end of the bargain because my inbox is usually full of ads for penile enhancement and porn. I like sex as much as the next bloke, but someone’s clearly got it in their head that all we do when we’re not chasing the streets of London after bad guys is shag.

I don’t have any inspiration for this last case, still can’t wrap my head around the depravity of some people, so I turn my attention to the mindless jobs of running a blog. Sifting through said emails, answering comments from fans -- some of the discussions between fans turn heated and there’s always need of a calming influence somewhere.

The same name pops up regularly in the comments on just about every case. Mary Ferrara. She’s a bright, interesting girl with a steady opinion and an unwavering support of Sherlock. I figure she has a bit of a crush, to be honest, and I’m always keen to see what someone else thinks of all the truly mad things we sometimes get up to. It’s fun, this small, social circle that’s built up around Sherlock, but sometimes I feel like we’re all orbiting around him, like he’s the sun in our solar system, which is funnier, still, since he’d never understand that reference at all.

It’s while I’m reading another of Mary’s informed comments -- this time on the rate of decomposition in human bodies -- that I get the idea to do a bit of a search on her. It’s possible, with her range of knowledge, that she’s a doctor, too, possibly even someone I’ve met before but just don’t remember.

I find her name easily enough in my favorite search engine, but I’m not prepared for where it leads. Apparently Mary Ferrara runs a popular fansite dedicated to theorized relationships between Sherlock and Lestrade, Sherlock and Mycroft, Sherlock and . . . _John Watson_.

I blink several times, trying to clear my vision, thinking maybe I’ve reached the point that spectacles would be a good idea, but no. No. There’s my name, linked with Sherlock’s, for all the world like we’re a couple. Well, I’d said it often enough. People were bound to talk about our relationship, this bloody show we were doing likely to make it ten times worse. I just never thought they’d write stories about what we might be up to under the sheets.

And that’s what all these stories seem to be about -- shagging in one form or the other. In several forms that I don’t even understand.

Out of curiosity, I click on a link of what appears to be Mary’s most popular story, judging by the views and comments. I scroll through, scanning, not really seeing anything until--

_John runs his hands through Sherlock’s hair, dark curls like silk threading through his fingers._

It’s sort of like I’ve been punched in the gut. My breath explodes out of me and I slide down in my chair. Slamming the lid closed on the laptop, I jump up and pace the flat, giving the offending machine a wide berth.

Then, I make tea.

The flat is quiet around me, save for the muffled sounds of London, the roiling water and the pounding of my own heart.

It’s not like I haven’t read porn before. I have. It’s just somehow different when the porn you’re reading stars _you_. Even if it is a highly fictionalized version of yourself.

And possibly because the person on the screen is doing things you’ve secretly wanted to do.

There, I’ve admitted it.

Who could be around Sherlock for any length of time and _not_ think about it? The way the light plays along the stark bones of his face. The casual way he invades your personal space. How mesmerizing his hands are when he’s trying to prove a point. But, it’s not something I’ve ever allowed myself to seriously consider. Or even contemplate. Alright, maybe that one time we’d both had too much to drink and Sherlock’s hand slid up my thigh and my cock twitched in anticipation of being touched.

But, that had been nothing. Just one of those awkward moments we brushed off with giggling, blamed on close proximity.

This. This was something entirely different because when I’d read those words on the screen, I could feel Sherlock’s hair against my fingertips. Knew just what it would feel like, thanks to that time I’d patched up a scalp wound for him. How the curls were soft as satin, but springy, too.

The kettle alerts and I nearly jump out of my skin, but my hand is steady as I pour the water. I try not to think what that means.

Because barring the fact that I’m not gay, these sorts of thoughts could complicate an already complicated situation.

Closing my eyes, I inhale the steam from my cup, centering myself in the way my therapist taught me. I’ve only just found my place of peace when I hear noises in the living room, near my desk.

Sherlock often uses my computer when he comes back from one of his walks, so I think nothing of it until I remember what I’d been looking at--

I throw the teacup across the kitchen, hot liquid scalding my fingers. I shout, as much from the pain as from the absolute desperation to stop Sherlock seeing what’s on my screen. Barreling into the living room, I’m just in time to see Sherlock opening the lid of the laptop. I run full out for the table, knocking him aside, where he stumbles, landing in a heap on the couch.

I slam the lid down once more, turning to face Sherlock, the horrible device and its myriad secrets hidden behind my back.

Sherlock gives me a look. The calculating one. “Really, John, if you want privacy with your pornography, you should try your room.”

And I’m so horrified by how close he’s come to the truth that I can barely sputter, “I’m sorry? What?”

“It’s obvious what you’ve been doing while I’ve been out. Your pupils are blown wide, your heart rate is elevated, pounding steadily, there, at the base of your neck and your brow is sheened with sweat that has little to do with the temperature of the flat, or your mad dash across it. Blatant desire, obviously.”

Oh. Holy. Jesus. Of course the mad bastard can see it written all over my face.

“Right,” I say, snatching up my laptop and bloody scurrying to my room like a rodent caught in a bright light. Where I intend to stay, possibly forever.

Except the camera crew is due again in the morning and there’s really no way I can get out of that.

Bugger. Sherlock would see straight through any lie I managed to come up with, long before it was even out of my mouth.

I lock the door behind me, pushing back against it like I think I’m adding another level of protection. I rarely do this, but Sherlock sometimes has a tendency to barge into my room unannounced and I’d really rather not see him again until there’s a nice buffer of people between us.

I gingerly put the laptop on my desk, like it’s a bomb about to detonate, but it’s like the bloody thing _calls_ to me, until finally I have to cover it with a spare shirt. I feel daft and ridiculous, but better, too, for the damnable thing not staring me in the face.

I strip down to my boxers, settle into bed and turn out my bedside lamp. There aren’t any sounds anywhere in the flat, which is strange. I never remember it being this quiet unless Sherlock’s gone and it’s unlikely he’s stepped out again so soon. I wonder what he’s up to, what he’s made of that scene in the living room. Wonder why I was so bowled over by such a small snippet of text written by someone else. Someone who doesn’t even know us. 

After an hour or so of staring at the ceiling, then the clock, then the wall, I’m just about to give up on the idea of sleep, when the soft strains of violin music come sweeping through the walls and wrap themselves around my body. It’s an odd way to think about music, I know, but it’s the way his playing always makes me feel, like invisible arms wrapping me up and pulling me under. 

Only this time, those invisible bonds seem to be focused on my cock. The music and that bloody story that I can’t get out of my mind have combined into this sort of waking dream, like he’s here beside me, breath warm and feather-light against my neck. 

I push my boxers down enough to free myself and wrap my fingers just so around the base of my prick. I’m heavy in my hand, warm and damp with the sweat of the uneasy night I’ve had and I close my eyes, trying to imagine what it would feel like if it wasn’t my hand, but his. His fingers are long and slender, pale white, deft and graceful. 

He’d start slow, with long pulls from the base to the tip, pause to coat his palm with the pre-come leaking out of the head and then back down, one smooth motion, timed like a love song and repeated like a melody. 

The music coming from the living room is fluid and graceful and I match my strokes to it, all the while imagining it’s Sherlock’s hand on me and trying very hard not to think what the fuck I’m actually doing. It’s far too easy to imagine those long, long fingers wrapped around me, tugging, jerking, stroking in time to the music. 

But, the fantasy’s not quite complete until I picture him here, mouth at my ear, urging me on in that voice of his, but this time it’s different in my head. Pitched lower and ragged with want, my name falling from his lips. He’d moan when I bucked my hips up into his hand, impatient for him, unable to keep still with him touching me. 

The music speeds up, tempo becoming ragged and jerking and it’s perfect, so perfect for the stuttering pulls along my cock. 

My mouth is dry, my breathing ragged and gasping and it’s all I can do not to cry out, but there’s enough of my senses left to know how foolish that would be, so I bite my bottom lip, imagining it’s Sherlock’s teeth against the sensitive skin, those lips of his full and kiss-bright against mine. 

Once more and again, squeezing hard near the base and dragging my hand down, slick with sweat and pre-come, the sound of flesh on flesh unmistakable. My toes curl as I arch into my hand, balls drawing up tight. I use my other hand to play with my nipple, imagine that oh so perfect white skin stark against my naked chest. I roll the hard nub between my fingers and cry out as I come, Sherlock’s name almost a shout from my lips. The music stops abruptly, bow skittering along the strings, but picks back up almost immediately. 

Oh bloody hell. Surely he didn’t hear me. Maybe he just heard me cry out and thinks I’ve had a bad dream. I lay there in silence, listening to the song, breathing returning to normal. 

The last notes end in a flourish and instantly I hear the unmistakable sound of him padding down the hallway to my door. He knocks and somehow my cock twitches at the thought that he’s right there, on the other side of that door. It would be so easy to unlock it and invite him inside. 

“John--” 

Fuck. “Yes, Sherlock?” I ask, and my voice is still raspy with desire, which I hope sounds like sleep. 

“Everything alright?” 

“Yes, of course. I’ve just had a dream.” I can’t make myself say a bad dream, since it was possibly the most fucking amazing moment of my life and calling it bad would make it seem _bad_ in my head and oh, God, this is awkward. 

“Alright, then. I’ll leave you to it. I’m sorry if my playing disturbed you.” 

“It didn’t.” Unless you count causing me to masturbate to the thought of my flatmate jerking me off as a bother. Which, at the moment, I really didn’t. 

“Good. See you in the morning, then.” 

“Right. In the morning.” And he walks away, but his footsteps are halting and it sounds like he turns back towards my door several times.

\----------

Getting off must have been just what I needed, because the next thing I know it’s morning and Mrs. Hudson’s banging on my door. “John, the telly crew is here and they’re ready to start filming!”

Fuck. I can’t remember the last time I’ve wanted to curse this much. Medical school, I think it was. I’m bloody well terrified of facing Sherlock in the bright light of day. What if I can’t control myself? What if I just jump on him and snog him senseless?

What if I suddenly realize that overnight I’ve turned into a girl and I’m freaking out like I’ve got my first crush on a boy! Jesus, my brain is a scary place. Fucking Mary Ferrara and her fucking Sherlock porn.

I grumble the entire time I get dressed. I feel like someone’s old, decrepit, crotchety uncle as I shamble into the living room.

Sherlock’s face lights up at the sight of me and my stomach does this flippy thing that I’ve only ever read about in one of Harry’s romance novels.

“John!” he says, oozing charm and it’s sort of creepy because I can tell it’s one of his acts. The kind he does to get people to open up to him about their deepest, darkest secrets and trust him.

“What the bloody hell are you on about?” I ask him, and he cocks an eyebrow, looking around to make sure no one’s within hearing distance.

“Trying to be a bit more personable. Hated the way they made us look the last time. Didn’t you?”

I can only nod as he leads me to my chair like I’m an old lady who’s too feeble to walk on her own. I jerk my arm away from him, hard, and he pulls a face, confusion evident. He leans back, gives me one of those assessing looks of his and says, “I thought you’d be in a better humor this morning.”

I sit down abruptly, glad that the chair is there for me to fall into. Of course he knows. He knows everything. I’ve never held a secret from him as long as we’ve known each other.

Oh, bloody Christ, I’m going to have to move.

This session’s different from the last in a hundred small ways. Sherlock is charming and personable, self-effacing, but knowledgeable. Looking at him now, I remember he’d referred to himself as a sociopath when we’d first met and it’s easy to see how that might be true. It’s like a different person’s inhabiting his body and I find myself staring at him, dumbfounded for most of the time.

The crew fawns all over him, charmed into his web, one by one, drawn in by this false personality he’s tried on like a costume. They look at me out of the corners of their eyes like I’m the hated step-child, because I try to provoke him throughout the day, try to draw the real Sherlock out into the open to preen and show off.

As if my feelings weren’t already conflicted enough, I look at him and it’s like I don’t even know him. This Sherlock could tell me anything and I’d never know if it was a truth or a lie. He’s like a stranger. Thankfully, he’s just different enough that I don’t have to fight hard to tamp down the lust I was sure would plague me today.

It’s well past sundown when we’re through for the day. With each person passing through the door, Sherlock shifts and remolds himself back into the arrogant sod I’m used to. It’s quite a relief when the last person files out the door and we’re able to shut it behind them, because for the first time today I’m looking at Sherlock Holmes and not some amalgamation of Mycroft and --

“You were doing Mycroft and who, exactly? It’s not someone I recognize, I don’t think.”

“No, you wouldn’t. I was channeling our dear Mother.”

“Ah. Right. It was bloody terrifying, to be honest. Glad to have you back.”

He smiles that slow, crooked smile, the one that does silly things to my senses. “I like it better when it’s just us.”

He’s reaching for his coat, so I ask if we’re going out to dinner.

“No. I have something I need to do alone. Don’t wait up.”

I almost say, “What happened to it just being us?” but I can’t force the words past the lump in my throat. And just like that, he’s out the door and gone and I’m left standing there in the middle of the hall like a puppy whose owner’s gone off to walk another dog.

I stand there entirely too long, looking at the door, like I somehow expect him to come back through it. God, this is getting ridiculous. Right. This is just stupid. It was just a furtive wank in the dark, could have happened with any stimulus, since I haven’t gotten laid in months. It doesn’t mean anything and nothing’s different and I’m just going to go and get my laptop--

Fuck.

No. No. Sod this. I march into my room, throw the shirt off the laptop and sit down, one purpose in my mind. I’ll write up our last case. Do a blog post about how bloody awful this whole telly business is.

What happens instead is I open the lid and it’s still on the same page it was on the night before. Mary Ferrara’s story.

I scroll to the top and start reading from the first. It begins rather boringly with us solving a case. Something about jewel thieves or art or something. I’m not paying much attention to the details, only to the interaction between Fictional Sherlock and Fictional Me.

In it we’re still _us_ to a certain degree. We still bicker like brothers, drive each other up the wall, still get exasperated with each other. Fictional Me still occasionally thinks Sherlock’s a sodding know-it-all and Fictional Sherlock still seems to think I’m the dullest bulb in the Christmas tree, but somehow fictional us. Works. It’s real and it’s honest and, as far as fictional couples go, we’re pretty fucking astounding together.

Then, there’s the sex. And Fictional John (I can’t think of it as me, now, I just can’t!) is stripping Fictional Sherlock and using his scarf to tie his hands above his head. And oh bloody Jesus.

_Sherlock writhed beneath John, as John slid first one finger and then another into him, working slowly, opening him up._

I squirm in my seat, uncomfortably aroused and confused.

And, yet, I can’t stop reading. I finish that story and move to another. This one has us in some bloody made-up alternate universe where I’m a pirate and Sherlock’s my cabin boy. As silly as the idea seems, I’m riveted by it, by how, even when you take us out of context, together we still make sense.

I lose track of time as I sit there, reading everything Mary Ferrara’s ever written. When I’m done, it’s light out, I’m painfully hard and my head feels like it’s screwed on backwards.

Quite honestly I have no idea what to do with myself. A cold shower seems the most sensible thing, but I can’t seem to make my legs work enough to get there. Finally I do manage to stumble to the bathroom and I climb in, fully clothed and turn only the cold water on. I figure either the shock of the temperature change will kill me and put me out of my misery, or my blood will return to my brain and I’ll be able to think again. Either way, it has to be better than this.

Sherlock finds me still under the water spray, ever insensible of the word privacy or the suggestion of a closed door. “Really, John?”

“What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?” I snap, jerking my arm away from where he’s trying to drag me out of the shower.

He doesn’t say anything, just leads me, dripping water all over the floors, to my room, shoves me inside and slams the door behind me. He yells through the barrier, “Get out of those wet clothes and into something sensible,” but then I hear him mumbling under his breath, “Can’t be left alone for even a minute.” Which makes me roll my eyes, because that’s how I usually feel about him.

I peel off the sopping clothes and throw them in the corner, knowing I’m going to be bawled out by Mrs. Hudson but too conflicted to care.

I pull on my pyjamas, comforted by the familiar black and white stripes. They seem like an island of normalcy in a world gone mad. Climbing into bed, I pull the covers up, bury my head under the pillows.

When I don’t answer the tentative knock on my door, Sherlock barges right in, looming over me like some demon of temptation, because all I can see out of the one eye not covered by pillows is his crotch. “Is something the matter, John?”

Think, think, think! “Yes. Yes, I’m ill. Feeling a bit out of sorts. Just need to sleep for a while. Wake me about an hour before the crew gets here?”

I risk a glance at his face. His eyes soften in a way I’ve never seen before and he reaches down, pulling the covers up snug around me, letting his hand linger at the small of my back. That one, brief touch does fucking alarming things to my senses and I’m glad that he doesn’t stay long, simply says, “Of course,” and leaves me to wallow in my misery.

I do manage to sleep, fitfully, but I’m beset by dreams of Sherlock. Pale, white limbs tangled in the sheets of my bed. Long, firm body stretched out in front of the fireplace. Facing the wall in front of me as I take him from behin--

“John! The crew will be here in an hour!”

I bang my head into the pillow a couple of times before dragging myself out of bed. I’m a complete wreck. My emotions are haywire, my libido’s off the charts and I’ve never been so confused before in my life. I’m not gay. I know I’m not.

Apparently I’m just gay in this one instance. Like Sherlock’s some bloody sexual anomaly. Like gender doesn’t even matter, because he’s just Sherlock. And just bloody does it for me.

I’ve never wanted to talk to Harry so much in my life. Trust her to be trying, “going off the grid” when I need her the most.

Today’s filming is some new form of Hell, because the stranger’s back beside me, but now he’s gone all touchy feely. A hand at the base of my neck, guiding me to face the right camera. Fingers brushing mine as he hands me a cup of tea. Large, warm hand on my knee as he laughs into the camera. The berk’s flirting with me, right there in front of God and everybody and the saddest part of all is that I like it.

By the time the crew’s left this time, I’m strung so tight Sherlock could probably use me to play his damn violin. I’m hard and aching and doing my best to hide that fact from Sherlock. I try to escape to my room, mumbling something about still feeling sick, but Sherlock grabs my wrist, barely exerting any pressure and it’s like I’m frozen in place.

He slides in close, puts those fucking luscious lips next to my ear and bloody _purrs_ , the bastard. “Molly will be so pleased you’ve enjoyed her work.”

I shake my head because I think maybe I’ve heard him wrong . “I’m sorry. What?”

Moving in closer, lips almost touching my earlobe, he whispers, “Oh, yes. Molly’s very proud of her stories. Fancies herself quite the matchmaker where we’re concerned. Though I’ll admit the pirate one was my idea.”

I jerk my hand away, move back, putting some space between us so that I can think. “You sodding wanker! You set me up!”

His smile is all innocence and I launch myself at him, but he weaves out of the way just in time. He continues backing away, while I all but stalk him around the flat. “I’ll admit, I did. I suggested to Molly that she comment on blog posts often enough to get your attention. She had a lot of fun with it, hardly took any coaxing at all. And, well, she’d already been writing the stories before I came up with the plan. The pieces just sort of fell into place after that.”

Then it really hits me what he’s saying. He set me up to feel all of this. Well, it must mean. It has to. “What the fuck are you saying, Sherlock? Was this some sort of experiment?”

He stops, quick as a flash, and he’s back beside me, in my space, his body running the length of mine, every inch of us that can touch, is, and it’s better than anything I imagined. “Oh, yes. Possibly the most important experiment of my life.”

I grab him by the shirt front, pull his face in close to mine. Several of his buttons pop off at the throat and I’m met with a nice view of that dip in his neck, the one that just begs to be licked. Right. Mad. I’m mad! “If you wanted me like this, why didn’t you just bloody say?”

“Because you had to know you wanted me first, John. Don’t you see? You had to get past all the labels and the trying to make us fit into your pretty little relationship boxes. You needed to redefine yourself. You just needed a little push.”

“Bloody fucking high-handed of you.”

“But I think you’ll agree it was worth it. In the long run.”

“Is that what this is, then? The long run?”

“You tell me.”

But words just sort of fail me at this point, so I decide on action. I run my hand along his jaw, to the nape of his neck and thread my fingers through the soft hairs there. It takes only the slightest pressure to pull his face to mine, a slight tilt of the head and then our lips meet. 

His kisses are slow and awkward at first. I’m pretty sure he hasn’t had a lot of experience and that’s fine by me. I’m more than willing to lead in this part of our life, since he’s usually dragging me behind in everything else.

We kiss like school kids for a while, all closed-mouthed and desperate, then I run my tongue along his bottom lip, urging his mouth open, slipping inside. The first taste of him on my tongue is searing heat and full of life and _Sherlock_. I pull back only long enough to say, “Suck on my tongue next time,” before plunging back in, thrusting inside. Amazingly, he follows instructions quite well, sucking at my tongue eagerly, and moaning into my mouth.

Other than the kissing, we’ve yet to touch. His hands are just hanging there at his sides, so I use mine to settle his on my hips. I jump a bit as his fingers instantly dig into my sides, tickling for just a moment, before latching on, nails digging in, just this side of painful.

That leaves me free to explore his body. The smooth firm bones at his collar, wide shoulders, tapered waist. It’s awkward and new to me, feeling a man under my hands, but I find I don’t mind much, because it’s him. 

Each time my hands find a particularly sensitive spot -- small flick at his nipple, long slide down the muscles in his stomach, he makes these delicious noises in the back of his throat that cause my cock to throb, straining against my pants. If I had any doubt whatsoever that I’d be able to get the job done with a man, that’s dispelled pretty quickly. It takes everything in me to slow down, make this worth something.

“Bedroom, I think?” I manage to gasp out between kisses. He’s a fast learner, clever man, and his kisses are increasingly urgent and demanding.

“Yes,” he gasps. We lean against each other, fumbling out of our clothes, leaving a trail of garments strewn all over the flat and by the time we stumble into my bedroom, we’re both down to our underwear.

I turn on the closet light, just enough to see by, while Sherlock sits down on the bed. He’s nervous, I can tell, even though I’ve hardly ever seen him so before. There’s a slight tremor in his hand when he reaches for me and I bring it to my lips, kissing his knuckles. “We don’t have to do this tonight, you know. There’s no rush. No rule that says we ever even have to take this step.” When he doesn’t speak, I sit down beside him, splay my hand along his cheek. Leaning into the touch, he brings his own hand up to cover mine.

“But you want to.”

I can hardly deny it, the way my cock is practically begging for someone to touch it. “God, yes, of course I do. But, I’d rather you’re comfortable. That’s really all that’s important here.”

He doesn’t answer, just scoots further into the bed, settling himself against my pillows. He’s heartbreakingly lovely there and God, he looks so young and vulnerable. This is a side of him I never thought to see -- a place where’s he’s not firmly in control of the situation. It’s a heady thing, fills me with some sort of barbaric power trip and God, the blood’s leaving my brain in a rush because I’m not thinking straight at all.

Nope, probably not ever thinking straight again.

I fumble in my bedside drawer for a minute, panicking that it won’t still be there, but thankfully my hand closes on the lube I’d bought back when Sarah and I were having sex regularly. Sitting down on the edge of the bed beside him, I just sort of hold the tube in one hand and place my other on his thigh, high up and close enough to him that I feel the heat of his cock against my hand. “You’re sure about this? We can stop at any point. I won’t be angry and it won’t change whatever’s happening between us.”

“You can stop worrying, John. You’re certainly not taking advantage of me. I’m the one who seduced you, try to remember that.”

That makes me smile, because that’s so entirely him. “Alright, then.”

I figure it’s now or never and just go for it, shucking my drawers and kicking them out from under me. Sherlock follows suit, wiggling out of his own and the breath catches in my chest when I finally see him naked.

I’m past the point of thinking how strange it is that I’m this close to another man’s cock and right on to thinking how gorgeous he is like this. His cock sleek and dark, curving towards his stomach.

Kneeling before him, I nudge his legs apart, using his knees to draw him closer, open him wide. I squeeze out a generous portion of lube in my hand, careful to coat each finger, then lean down and take the head of his cock into my mouth. He’s not the only one experiencing new things tonight and it’s odd, this taste of flesh between my teeth. Odd, but somehow just right. I flick my tongue over the head, lapping at the beads of pre-come and use his distraction to slip a finger inside of him. He whimpers a bit, squirming beneath me, so I stop moving, don’t even breathe against his cock. 

“No, John. Don’t stop.”

I moan, humming around his prick and slide my finger further inside, start twirling it in a small, circular motion. I’ve done things like this before with girlfriends, had one in particular who really liked anal sex and find that other than the cock in my mouth, this is all the same things I’ve always enjoyed about making love. The warmth and suddenness of a body against your own. Watching your lover fall apart in your hands and knowing you’re the one who’s made them.

Watching Sherlock is probably the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. His head’s thrown back, full lower lip caught between his teeth, fists clenched in the sheets and it’s a struggle to concentrate on him and curb my own desires.

I try another finger, slip sliding into the warmth of his body, scissoring, opening him wider. It’s slow, he’s tight as anything, but so trusting. More lube, and I’m able to slide a third finger in, then a fourth. By this time, his hips are canting up in desperation, he’s thrown half the pillows off the bed and he’s begging, “Now, John. God, now. Just. Please.”

I position myself at his entrance, slip the head of my cock just inside and oh, god, it’s heavenly. I use one hand to guide myself and one to begin working his dick in a slow and steady rhythm. It’s a gradual thing, but eventually I’m all the way inside, tight warmth wrapped around me and for all that it’s the most ridiculous fucking thought I’ve ever had, it feels like home.

I know the minute I hit his prostate for the first time because his eyes fly wide, pupils dilated round and fathomless. He wraps both arms around my neck, kissing me for all the world like he’s done it forever. “Fast learner,” I gasp and he laughs, but this laugh is new, deliberate and sexy and full of the feelings flooding his body for the first time.

We find a steady rhythm like we’ve been lovers before, his hand and mine both wrapped tight around him, his hips urging me in and god and yes, like that.

It doesn’t take long at all for his hips to start faltering, for his moans to become frantic and pleading. I find I have no idea if he’s ever even had an orgasm before, and if not, it’s been a long time coming.

I laugh nervously, mad with desire and my own crazy thoughts and Sherlock makes an interrogatory sound in the back of his throat.

“Nothing. Just. You. You’re perfect. Magnificent. Sorry, doing it aloud again, I know,” and I smile, remembering when we first met and I couldn’t keep the astonishment out of my voice when he’d done something mind-blowing. Which was a pretty apt description of the thing he was doing with his hips at the moment. Jesus God.

“No,” he gasps. “It’s fine.” And I see the answering memory in his eyes.

“Unf. Nice to know that one’s made the Mind Palace.”

He bites my earlobe, taking it between his teeth and sucking delicately at the flesh. “All the ones with you have.”

I suck in a breath at that, thrust in once more, buried as far in him as I can and come, the orgasm starting somewhere deep inside my back and exploding along all the nerve endings in my body. I turn my attention to him, jerking hard and fast and faster and feel him vibrate all over as he comes, his, “Oh, God, John,” moaned into my ear, making my own cock jerk again.

We fall together, spent, limbs entangled, sweat and come sticking us together in several places.

Just as I’m about to drift off to sleep, I feel Sherlock curl against my side, dragging a sheet up over the both of us. His voice is quiet when he speaks, and timid in a way I’ve never heard. “Do you think people will notice that something’s changed between us? Shifted?”

I smile into his hair. “Nothing’s really changed at all, Sherlock. We’ve always been this. Us. I was the only one who couldn’t see it. God knows the rest of the world’s thought we were shagging all along.”

He’s so quiet I barely hear him say, “It’s more than shagging, this.”

It’s not a question, exactly, but I answer it like it is. “Oh, God, yes, of course. Much more.” Though I don’t have a name for it, since it seems like more than love, too.

I can tell his mind’s drifted again, flitting from topic to topic like it always does. “Did you enjoy the pirate story?”

I cough, but can’t help giggling. “I did. It was a particular favorite of mine.”

“Care to try it, sometime?”

“Arrrr!”


End file.
